


Backsliding

by svenskiovich



Category: The Autobiography of Jane Eyre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:18:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1824637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svenskiovich/pseuds/svenskiovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had actually talked with Simon recently, once.  She refused to regret it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backsliding

She actually had talked with Simon recently, once. She refused to regret it. She had been at Thornfield corporate at the time, lounging inconspicuously on the beige carpet in a corner of Grace’s office. It was an odd place to be—should’ve felt odder than it did, really, with all those empty spaces and off-kilter desks strewn with disorganized paperwork. Jane felt strangely comfortable in the offices, though, now that they were nearly vacated—much more comfortable than she had ever felt on the few times she had visited when they were busy and full and seemed to exude a polished efficiency. She could sit on the floor now, for example, without having to worry about that office assistant who always seemed to dart looks at her like she was doing something wrong. She had borrowed Grace’s laptop—partly to check her email, and also partly to force Grace to stop working and go to an early lunch—and she sat with it on her lap, trying to type up something to send to a few contacts who Rose thought might be able to offer advice on starting an art program. It was a tricky email to compose, mostly because Jane knew that she had to sound capable and professional while also admitting that she had no idea what she was doing. It was tasks like these that made her briefly consider the obvious—that this might not work. That actually creating this program was far too much for her to accomplish, and that this new surge of momentum and purpose might fade out like so many earlier ones had. That soon she would find herself coasting again, this time not even propelled by the need for money to break out of her rut. She read the salutation on the email draft for what felt like the hundredth time. To whom it may concern? Did anyone actually say that anymore? She looked around absent-mindedly, but there was no one to ask. The few remaining employees, it seemed, were out for lunch as well.

It was such a familiar sight that she almost didn’t notice it when it happened. In fact, it may even have been there for a few minutes already—Simon’s name and status in the little gmail chat box. He had marked himself as unavailable, as usual, and even his away message was the same as always: that humorless, redundant “ _I’m busy_.” For a few intent moments, she just stared at his name. 

Jane herself rarely logged into the chat. It always seemed to be peopled by an uncomfortably eclectic mix—that old professor, that roommate from freshman year, Liz and Johanna. But that afternoon there wasn’t just a girl she’d done a group project with one time, there was Simon. It seemed so fortuitous, so strange, especially considering that nearly half hour lecture he’d given them about how his internet access would be limited and how they couldn’t expect him to correspond at their beck and call. It was almost as if she were back at the apartment, wedged into the corner of the blanket-strewn couch, playing spider solitaire on Mary’s old laptop, wondering whether or not Simon would be home for dinner. So she acted on impulse. 

_hey_

She had typed and sent it rapidly, and now she looked almost disbelievingly at the lone word and timestamp in the tiny chat box. For a solid minute, there was nothing. Then the chat indicated that he was typing. His response was long in coming, but it was only:

_Hello Jane._

She had forgotten about that, about the way he added unnecessary periods to the ends of things, as if striving for formality and correctness even in fragments. But he had answered her. Warmly, even, for him. She felt a tightness in her chest loosen. She sent some general questions, and their conversation ground through Simon’s unique brand of small talk, his responses offering precise tidbits of information that Jane couldn’t imagine actually caring about—the square footage of the hospital, the full names of the people he was staying with, the amount of time he had paid for at the internet café. Jane smiled to herself a bit. That was Simon for you, so careful and so precise that you almost didn’t want to tell him when he was missing the mark.

_There is a simple mathematical trick to remember the time difference. If you care to learn it. They taught it to us at our first information session here, likely assuming it would be useful for family members._

Jane messaged back quickly, instinctively.

_I’d be happy to. we all miss you  
Diana and Mary said that souper Sunday was terrible without you_

_You missed Souper Sunday?_

Jane smiled again. The cutesy name was of course Mary’s idea, but the rest of the tradition was all Simon’s, who always ushered in the new week with some cream of mushroom or chicken noodle from a can.

_oh yeah, I couldn’t, I was at my place_

_Your place?_

Jane immediately regretted mentioning it. She framed her response carefully.

_oh, yeah, I got my own apartment! It’s small but it feels cozy. I loved living with you guys but I came to the decision that it was time to have my own space_

There was a pause. 

_The rent can’t be cheaper than what you were paying before._

_well no… but I think it’s worth investing in my own growth right now  
so what was that trick for remembering the time difference?_

_I’m not sure you’ve considered this thoroughly. I know that there are many available options, but living in our apartment is the most cost-effective and the most efficient._

_i have considered it  
it’s really not that big of a difference_

_Diana and Mary need a roommate; you need somewhere to live. It makes sense._

_they’re fine with it_  
 _I thought Diana would’ve told you_  
 _have you not been talking to her?_

_What are you currently paying for rent?_

_…?_

_You couldn’t have gotten as good of a deal on a studio apartment. What are you paying?_

_? that really isn’t the point_

_How is that not the point? Isn’t that what we’re discussing?_

Jane bit her lip in frustration.

_I decided to move because it was something that I needed to do_

_It can’t have been the best decision. What’s the rent?_

_Simon I can take care of myself_

Another pause on his end.

_Is the rent lower? It doesn’t seem very likely that the rent would be lower._

Then it came.

_You moved closer to him, didn’t you?_

There it was. That push-pull of assumptions and half-formed understandings. That immediate plunge of guilt, because of course he was right. Of course there was no real, logical reason for her to move out of a perfectly good, inexpensive apartment with loving roommates. Of course it was silly to think of herself as somehow _deserving_ her own space, as if space were something you deserved by being jobless and indecisive. Of course she had, in fact, moved closer to Rochester.

_Simon, that’s really not the point_

When his response came, it was all at once, a single block of text.

_As I see that my personal opinion has not been well-received by you in the past, I will only tell you the facts. The facts are that you left him, at great personal cost to yourself, because you felt he was bad for you. You said that we, that Mary and Diana at least, were good for you. You said that you felt like you had a new start, a new purpose once again. When your job was unfairly terminated, you had an opportunity for another such new start, to do real good, to use your skillset as a nurse, and you turned it down. It was too much change too fast, you said. Now you have moved away from the people you claimed helped you and moved closer to the person you needed to get away from._

She should’ve been angry, should’ve been furious. But there was still that guilt.

_Simon you have at least try to understand  
a lot of things have changed since then_

_I knew it with perfect clarity; you were right for it. I wouldn’t have offered it to anyone else._

For a moment it throbbed through her—the surprise and pain he must have felt when she said no. Her fingers hesitated on the keyboard.

_Things would be different, Jane.  
I know things would be different if you were here._

She felt a sharp pressure behind her eyes. The urge to be close to him again, to be forgiven.

_Simon, I couldn’t go with you but you have to understand that it wasn’t because of you_  
 _you've been like a brother to me_  
 _can’t we move on from this together?_

His response was immediate, as if he had barely read her words.

_You’re backsliding, Jane._

For a moment, she actually just blinked uncomprehendingly at her computer.

_what?_

_You’re backsliding. I thought you wanted to make progress with your life, with your goals, but I can see now that you won’t let go of your old destructive habits._

She just let the messages roll in, one after the other.

_Every time you say you want to make things right, it’s just sentiment, all sentiment._  
 _You’re desperate for approval but you won’t make the right choices. Not only do you not root out your destructive habits, but you ask people to condone them._  
 _You take people in, perfect strangers even, with this idea that you need help, that you need them, and then you not only use them to continue your old habits but you demand that they approve of them._  
 _Even now you come to me with all this sentiment, begging me to forgive you, and you don’t even deign to tell me outright that you’re back with him._

She had found her fury. 

_how dare you_  
 _how dare you Simon_  
 _is it even possible for one fucking second for you to step out of your own head?_  
 _to spend the barest minimum of effort to listen to someone else?_  
 _or if that’s too fucking much for you to deal with, to at least listen to yourself?_  
 _to at least give the slightest minimum of effort to listen to what you’re saying to me?_

She realized her hands were shaking with fury. With a defeatist determination she forced herself to stop typing. It wasn’t worth it.  
She breathed in and out. Ten full breaths.

He said nothing. She wondered if he was just going to leave, make her punishment complete by logging off without another word.  
For some reason she read his last message again. Those last four words. _you're back with him._ And somehow, even through her haze of anger, she realized that something was off about them. She hadn’t said that she was back with Rochester. She had barely even implied that she’d moved closer to him. Simon was so thick about picking up on hints like that—how did he notice that one? It wasn’t like him to follow intuition or jump to conclusions.

Or was it? He was always so rational, so indefatigably rational, always building careful cases with painstakingly amassed facts. Like that time Mary had complained about eating leftovers because the microwave turned everything soggy, and he had come back the next day with a page long, bulleted list that proved that they needed a toaster oven. Not that he even wanted one—he didn’t like buying new things, especially didn’t like buying unnecessary things, didn’t like change, barely even used the toaster oven after they had gotten it. But he had looked into it, and the information pointed to one conclusion. If they wanted a fast, convenient way to cook superior leftovers, they needed a toaster oven.

But with her? All bets, all rational bets were off when it came to her. He jumped to conclusions, acted childish, became overprotective and controlling. He twisted the facts, even ignored them. She remembered that strange, charged moment that she hadn’t really let herself think about, had almost come to believe she had imagined—cross-legged on the bed, that blue shirt and those earnest eyes, that cloud of words, Simon leaning closer, closer to her, her somehow reciprocating, breathless, leaning in, like she was falling— _you're back with him._

It was stupid of him, supremely stupid, typical of his bullheaded decisions, cowardly even, for him to run from Rose, to avoid a relationship that could actually have had a future, and to gravitate toward Jane. He probably even felt like Jane was the safe option, safe and familiar, someone he understood, someone who shared his values, who was already part of their odd little family. He had reduced her to what she said and did, had latched onto a shadow of her without looking any further. He had seen her as tractable, obedient. He couldn’t have been more wrong. But, for the first time, Jane let herself fully admit it—he had fallen for her.

His response wasn’t logical or even fair—it couldn’t be. He raged at her and grasped desperately for the moral high ground because he had put it all on the line and she had rejected him. Now all that was left was to blame the emotions themselves, the pain, the “sentiment.” She had gotten past his well-ordered reserve, had taught him a new emotional vocabulary, had unwittingly led him from familiarity to love, and now, even when he was rejecting her with everything he had, he couldn’t do it dispassionately, couldn’t escape back into that bastion of rationality.

He still hadn’t replied, but he hadn’t logged off either.

_Simon I’m sorry for what happened_  
 _I’m sorry that you have to feel this way_  
 _it's a pretty painful learning process, but it’s something we all go through, I promise_

He didn’t answer.

_I’ll always be sorry for the way things happened, I think. I’ll never regret my decisions, because I did what was right for me, and because you don’t get to decide that, whether or not you think you know better  
but I will regret that I hurt you_

She imagined him sitting there, at night in a sweltering internet café, probably in that same familiar blue shirt, whatever business he was hoping to take care of online utterly unfinished, occasionally glancing nervously at the clock, because the time he had paid for was ticking away and it would worry him, would be stressful for him to pay extra and alter his original plan. She cared so, achingly much about him. But she wouldn’t shoulder the guilt he wanted to give her. She wouldn’t immolate herself so that his high purpose could burn brighter.

_I’m never going to be with you Simon. it wouldn’t be good, for either of us. but I will always love you_  
 _and I hope one day that you can admit that it wasn’t my fault or my silly sentiment, as you might say_  
 _that you loved me too_

She waited, gave him a chance. _Simon Rivers is typing,_ gmail proclaimed. _Simon Rivers has entered text._ She waited. Three minutes, four. Nothing. She smiled a tiny, crooked smile, and decided that she could do one last thing for him, by not forcing him to respond.

_Simon-James Rivers, never forget that you are capable of falling in love  
goodnight Simon_

And she logged off.

**Author's Note:**

> Something about where they left Jane and Simon in AOJE felt unfinished to me, so here's one last conversation. In the book, St. John Rivers fills me with the anger of a thousand suns, so I was always very distrustful of AOJE's Simon, but once his character arc was complete, I found myself looking back and seeing what a complex, even tragic character they had created. Hopefully I got at least some of that complexity across.


End file.
